


In Search of Atlantis

by Kateera



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Built Family, Dark Will, Hannibal has apologies to make, Jack gets curious, M/M, On the Run, Reckoning, Self-Harm, murder spree
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-12-22 13:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11968443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kateera/pseuds/Kateera
Summary: Will wakes up from the fall, ready to start his new life with Hannibal, only to be left alone and in the care of strangers. Anger is a small word compared to Will's feelings on the matter.





	1. Step One of the Plan

**Author's Note:**

> I'm normally a fluff kind of writer but this was too good to pass by. So, Dark!Will here we come!  
> A huge thank you to [Llewcie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie) for being an awesome beta (all your encouraging words are a gift).
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://kateera.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kateera_) if you want to talk. :)

Will is aware that murder is easy and takes much less time than people realize. People suppose it is a need born in a certain kind of person, a broken or twisted soul with no humanity. They think of a murderer as a shadow with a knife in the dark and a bullet in the quiet and never a person buying groceries in the market with the sunlight beaming down and coupons in their pockets. Will thinks, Will knows, that it only takes a single moment, a lucky chance encounter, and the right amount of pressure. Murder is easy.

 

It’s night and the water slapping against the boat feels malevolent, eating away at his sanity as he rocks on the choppy waves. He’s miles from shore now and he rolls the dead body out of its hiding place with only the stars to witness. The previous owner of Will’s boat didn’t do anything beyond having the right kind of sails and motor and an added proclivity towards wounded strays. Will plays the role well with his healing shoulder, scarred face, and large eyes. He’s on the boat in minutes with a blanket draped across his shoulders and a mug of coffee in front of him and it’s nothing to slip his knife between the man’s ribs, letting the blood splash down his arm while he holds the dying fisherman till he stops twitching. Now with the darkness surrounding him, Will relives the moment as he disposes of his corpse, picking the body up and slinging it across his good shoulder, Will walks to the railing and lets the body splash into the waves below. The dead fisherman sinks to the bottom of the ocean, his face frozen in shock from the knife’s sliding edge, and Will turns the boat south. 

 

South, where warmth and violence await in equal amount and Will is breathless with the anticipation of it, even as the weather mocks his progress with cloudy skies and rough sailing. Will closes his eyes and dreams himself away, already on the beach with soft sand, cool drinks, and a warm sun beating down on his shoulders as he watches the ocean. 

  
  


_ Peace,  _ he thinks and tries to cling to the image as the edges fray and crack. While Will clings to the warmth, a chill slips in, ice forming on his breath, and he doesn’t have to turn his head to know who stands behind him. His presence is electric, like standing where lightning has struck and breathing in the smell of ozone and hot earth.

  
  


_ “You’re going to burn.” _

  
  


_ “I want to.” _

  
  


Will opens his eyes and checks his watch. He’s due to lie down for a couple hours of sleep but sleep won’t come without invoking dreams of Hannibal and Will doesn’t want dreams. Reality is preferable. Walking below deck, he shambles to the little galley and drags down a loaf of bread and a large jar of crunchy peanut butter. He slathers a slice with the thick spread and picks up the piece of paper carefully folded and held to the metal table with magnets. He reads it even though the contents have long been memorized.

 

_ Will, _

_ Perhaps snippets of time is all I’m allowed from you and I must savor each one now as treasures bestowed. Thank you for allowing me to witness your becoming. You were beautiful and all I could have hoped for. Chiyoh will see to your final arrangements. If you exceed expectations as is sometimes your nature, and awaken, please don’t think too harshly upon me. I couldn’t stay and survive each day watching you wither in front of me. I find myself hoping you slip into death and never realize I’ve left.  _

_ Enamorarme de ti fue inevitable. _

_ In all worlds, _

_ Your Hannibal _

  
  


It’s not a long letter and Will reads it twice more before tucking it back under the magnets and smoothing out its edges. He remembers waking up in the strange hospital that was no hospital at all, where women dressed in long black robes of the Catholic Church and never spoke to him, and he remembers reaching out for Hannibal only to find himself alone. He learned through mime and hand signals what they expected of him during his recovery and one had held this letter for the day he left. They hadn’t believed he would ever wake up, had planned for a late summer funeral. Will sometimes wonders if he isn’t still lying in that dim room with pictures of saints watching over him, that this could be some elaborate coma dream and a last ditch effort to survive by his dying mind. Sometimes he presses a hand against his shoulder until the wound screams at him and reminds him that pain is life.Sometimes he lets the idea drift without reaffirming his state of being, content to stay in whatever cocoon his mind has built.

 

Finishing his snack, Will heads up to the top deck and starts the small motor. He retracts his anchor as the motor hums. The thud of the chain curling into place reminds Will of a heartbeat and blood flickers at the edges of his mind before he focuses on the task at hand. 

 

_ South _ .

 

Days pass in monotony. Will tires of bread and peanut butter and rigs a fishing pole to the edge of the boat. There isn’t much activity but the days when he catches something edible are marked with a full stomach as he lies down to sleep. He stretches his shoulder, keeps up with the exercise regimen prescribed to him by the doctor-nuns, grows out his beard, and listens to audio tapes of neutral voices cheerfully teaching him conversational Portuguese. His rough voice repeats the canned phrases, the sound jarring to his ears after so long in silence.

 

When he catches a glimpse of land, he pretends it isn’t real, a mirage on the ripples of the endless ocean. Land means people and talking and explaining why he exists in their lives, whether as a customer, a tenant, a friendly face, or a gruesome monster. He’s grown accustomed to his life on the open ocean with birds circling his gut pile and the smell of salt water permeating his skin. It’s the lie that makes him turn the boat and head for land; the lie that he could be happy drifting on this ocean; the lie that he wants to be alone.

 

His duffel is stuffed full of clothes, cash, and an unregistered pistol and Will leaves his boat to be confiscated by the authorities or an enterprising fisherman. The money is from the safe under the bed and the pistol is from under the mattress and his restlessness is from the security camera by the gate, panning left and right and all too real. No one stops his progress and he makes it to the end of the dock. A sign for São Luís Sport Fishing flashes next to him and Will allows himself a small smile. 

 

_ Right on track. Hello Brazil. _

  
  


Catching a taxi is easy; his bag marks him as a traveler and the driver is all smiles as he climbs in the back.

 

“ Preciso do hostel mais próximo ,”  _ ( _ _ I need the nearest hostel) _ he says and even if his accent isn’t quite right and his voice sounds like gravel, the driver understands well enough to nod and pull out into traffic.

 

They zip through the streets, careening around people and other vehicles to arrive at a local hostel near the heart of the city. Two women displaying skin baring outfits under their long coats vie for his attention as he pays the driver and he gives them a wave but doesn’t approach. They don’t seem to mind his disinterest and move on to the next stranger passing. Will looks up at the building. The roof is partially caved in and a blue tarp flaps in the slight breeze over the gaping hole. The walls are brick but crumbling and broken and people have sprayed them with various paints over the years, giving the building an aura of careless neglect. 

 

_ Hannibal wouldn’t be caught dead here. _

 

Thoughts of Hannibal still sting and he walks through the door before more can invade his mind and sour his mood.

 

There is a small man standing behind iron bars, a cigarette hanging from his mouth as he leans against his counter. “Oi, Can I help you?”

 

The thick accented english is welcome and Will lets himself smile. He knows his scars are off-putting, part of the reason he’s chosen a hostel for his short stay, and smiling puts people at ease, makes them ignore their instincts. 

 

Coughing to clear his throat, Will places a couple of bills on the counter. “A single room please.”

 

The man snorts but pockets the bills and leads him up to the top floor of the building. His room is small and has a section of roof under that blue tarp, but he has it all to himself and Will hands the man another bill. 

 

“For the privacy,” Will says and the man nods before exiting the room. 

 

It’s clear that the less time he stays in rented spaces, the better. He’s too memorable with his scars and his American accent. Placing his duffel on the bed, Will takes out his clothes and reaches for the small bundle wrapped in a sheet at the very bottom. It’s not much, a few fishing knives, a roll of duct tape, a change of clothes, and some rope, but it's enough to get him started. Looking out the window of the room, Will is quiet and sure, his thoughts no longer racing as he watches the people pass by. 

 

_ The calm before the storm, Hannibal would call it.  _ Will frowns and shakes his head. _ Stop thinking about him. _ Will looks around the room again, spying a corner chest of drawers.  _ Do what you came here to do. _

 

Opening the top drawer, Will drops his duffel bag into it, tucks his bundle of supplies in his shirt, the gun into the waist of his pants, and a wad of bills in his pocket. 

  
  


Hunting in the large city isn't hard. People don't look behind them when they're in a crowd, too used to having bodies surrounding them all the time. Will watches and detects and moves on if the person isn't worth the kill. His lunch consists of meat and rice wrapped in a tortilla from one of the street vendors and it’s good, but heavy in his stomach that’s used to bread and peanut butter and fish. 

 

As the evening crowd fills the streets, Will spots a man exiting a building with a young girl seemingly glued to his side. The girl doesn't fight and when she's handed off to another man down the street; she doesn't even blink. He can't follow both men and the first disappears into a group of people headed into a nearby club. Will follows the man with the girl and the more he watches, the darker his anger grows. Bedelia once told him he was only capable of righteous violence, that he would nurture instead of crush. Righteous violence this may be (he wants to save the girl) but it's also for himself, to get another glimpse of black blood in the moonlight. 

 

The target has been bouncing from club to club over the last two hours, the girl always in tow, though drooping with fatigue. The sun set a few hours ago and Will feels an ache in his legs from walking all day on the concrete streets. The man leaves the club scene and heads into a neighborhood and Will feels his blood thrum in his veins as the man drags the girl into a small garish yellow house. Will gives them time to settle, to relax in a place the man would feel safe. Going around the back of the house, Will hops the fence and tries the backdoor. It's locked but he doesn't worry. He wants the fight. He rams the door open with his shoulder, breaking the flimsy lock, and hears a shout from down the narrow hallway he enters. There is a small room to his left and Will ducks into it, unrolling the sheet and grabbing a fish gutting knife from his pile. He thinks about the duct tape, to keep him silent, but decides against it. This can't be slow and he's too eager to watch the man die.

 

“ Quem é você, porra? ”  _ ( _ _ Who the fuck are you?) _ The voice is low and angry and Will smiles before he can stop himself. 

 

The man is standing in the doorway, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a glare in his eyes. Will balances on his feet and clutches the knife, finding just the right angle before rushing forward. The man takes another step into the room and Will knocks him into the wall, pushing the gutting knife into the soft flesh of his belly and pulling back, the hook bringing blood and viscera out as it exits. 

 

“ Caralho.” _ (Fuck.)  _ The man slumps to the floor, holding his guts in with his hands as Will stands over him, blood dripping down his arm.

 

Will leans forward until he can smell the bitter scent of fear mixing with the man’s cheap cologne and cigarette smoke. “Você não vai gostar disso.”  _ (You won’t like this.) _

 

His knife slides through the meat of his neck like butter, a sharp movement to the left cutting through skin and muscle. Gouts of blood splatter around the room and on Will and he closes his eyes to keep the liquid from his eyes. When he opens them again, the man is dead and drenched in his own blood. It’s not quite black, the light from the street streaking it with reds and browns, but Will breathes in the smell and is content. He takes the rope from his bag and ties it around the man’s middle, pulling him out into the hallway and standing him against the back door. He works quickly, the dead man heavy and difficult to move with Will’s stiff shoulder, but he makes a fair job of it and stands back to inspect his work.

 

The man’s head is tipped all the way back, exposing the gaping neck wound, and Will opened the wound in his gut more to pull out the tangled intestines and stomach. He thinks about cutting off the man’s penis and testicles and shoving them down his throat but it’s too vulgar for his taste. In the end, he merely leaves him naked with his legs splayed and brings his arms down to cups his hands around his genitals. Duct tape holds him standing against the door and Will smiles because the image is reminiscent of a man who’s been kicked in the groin.

 

He finds the bathroom and washes the blood off his skin and stares as it slithers down the yellow stained sink. Every movement feels like it’s in slow motion. His clothes are a lost cause and he changes into the extra set he brought with him. He wonders if Hannibal ever missed the way blood felt on his skin while he wore his protective plastic suit. Will thinks that he did.

 

_ Stop fucking thinking about him. Think about the girl. _

 

With his body clean and his clothes changed and his tools back in their wrappings, Will searches the house for the girl. He finds the front door swinging open and no one else in the house and decides that she used his distraction to run away. He doesn’t dwell on where she might have run, or what she might have seen. He takes one last look at the man’s body and the pool of blood at his feet, then leaves the house and locks the door behind him.

  
  
  



	2. Traveling In a Foreign Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will stocks up, and heads towards a new city and a new kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Self harm happens in this chapter. It's near the end and isn't graphic, but if you want to skip it, I understand.   
> Edited by me, so if there are glaring mistakes, please let me know and I will try to fix them.   
> Comments are truly appreciated and I send you all my love. 
> 
> Check me out on [tumblr](http://kateera.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/kateera_) to say hi and ask questions.
> 
> "Its gotta get dark, before the light can shine."

The hostel bed is full of lumps and digging springs but Will stretches out and drifts to sleep, the discomfort no match for his exhaustion.

 

His dreams come in a murky flood, distended corpses floating like flotsam around him while he struggles to keep his head above the green-black water. The body of Randall Tier bumps into him and it crumbles, skin and bone floating away and his skinned skull stares at Will with bared teeth. Another corpse bounces against his back and Will throws his arms out as the dead bodies float closer to him, forming a circle around his frantic swimming. Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Abigail, Abel Gideon, Georgia Machen, Cordell, Matthew Brown, men with familiar faces but no names. He wakes thrashing against the thin mattress as their faces contort in silent screams and melt into blood red foam across the water.

 

Sitting up and rubbing his hand over his face, Will swings his legs off the bed and tries to breathe. Sweat is dripping down his back and he knows without looking that the grimy sheet is now soaked. It’s still early, the clock next to his bed buzzing four am, but Will knows he won’t find any more sleep tonight. He packs up his bag, the tools from last night buried in the bottom and his meager supply of clothes on top.

 

_I’ll need to go shopping before I leave._

 

The early hour means the shops are still closed and Will sets his half empty bag near the door, willing the hours to pass as he stares at his tarp covered roof. His memory palace opens its doors but Will closes them again, anger piercing through him as his heart aches to see Hannibal again, even if only in his mind.

 

 _Just a peek,_ Will reasons, because the minutes on the clock are moving too slow and his mind is swirling with last night’s events.

 

Closing his eyes, Will drifts into the familiar office and smiles at the chairs pushed so close together that anyone sitting in them could touch their knees together. He sniffs the air and follows that spicy scent to the other side of the room, finds Hannibal standing in front of an open window. He’s wearing one of his normal therapy suits, the subtle checkered pattern blending with the color palette of the room, and Will surveys his own wardrobe of flannel and worn out jeans with a smirk. It’s a silly thought, a reminder that his look is far more in line with the stereotypical serial killer people make movies about then the perfectly presented persona before him.

 

Hannibal turns to him and smiles. “Are you looking for me, Will?”

 

Will shakes his head and resists the urge to move closer. “Why would I?”

 

Hannibal takes a step forward and Will opens his eyes, shaking his head to clear the image even as tears slip down his cheeks. He never thought missing someone could manifest as physical pain but the stark stab of his heartbeat against his chest proves him wrong. Standing and grabbing his bag, Will tromps down the stairs and out into the cool dark of the morning, escaping his stuffy room and his traitorous mind.

 

 _Never again,_ Will thinks, pushing his boiling emotions down into the recesses of his consciousness. _More clothes and better knives and breakfast. Then I move on._

 

Breakfast is easy to solve. There is a cafe selling bread and coffee to early risers and Will orders a slice of orange cake and a cup of strong sweet coffee and walks the silent streets feeling like a ghost in his own skin. He sits down on the sidewalk in front of a small clothing shop with their discount prices displayed in the windows. It’s still a half an hour before the shop opens and Will pulls a map out of his pocket, the paper pilfered from an unsuspecting tourist while he stood in line for coffee, and decides where to go next. He wonders about Mexico and Costa Rica before shaking his head and focusing on where in Brazil he should go next. A few cities stand out, their large populations like a siren call to his bloodlust, but the coastal towns call to him more and he picks a spot on the map that will only take a couple of days drive to reach. He adds ‘car’ to the list of things he needs in his head and hopes he stole enough from the dead fisherman to make it happen.

 

The clothing shop opens and it smells of coffee and spice and heat and Will trades his stolen cash for a new wardrobe. It’s not flashy, linen shirts and pants, thin cotton undergarments, and a new pair of shoes that would fit better with his new clothes than his rubber soled sailing boots. The clothes are durable and comfortable and he feels marginally more human in the light fabrics.

 

“Onde posso conseguir um carro?” (Where can I get a car?) Will asks the owner as she rings up his sale, her swift moving arms folding each piece of clothing perfectly into the bag.

 

“A duas quadras. tem uma garagem.” (Two blocks down. There’s a car lot.) Her mouth turns down at the corners and she shakes her head. “Ele vai tentar te passar a perna, então cuidado.” (They’ll try to cheat you so be careful.)

 

Will nods his head and thanks her for the tip with a careful smile, something small so his scar doesn’t stretch and ruin the moment. A cold calm is seeping back into his mind and he knows that he needs distance between him and this city before another person falls in the path of his knife. Carrying his clothes down the waking streets, Will watches a young boy playing fetch with an equally dirty mutt, the slim dog taking every opportunity to lick his owner’s face while the boy laughs and squeals. The sounds are dissonant, like notes in a song played out of order, and Will grips his bags and hurries past, wincing as squealing follows him down the street. The car lot is a fenced in block of concrete and a single shack on the edge, advertising low prices for all models. Wandering around the lot, he spots a beat-up Bentley with a caved in trunk and missing side mirror. It’s dark in color and a piece of his heart splinters before he can stop the memories from rushing in. He remembers falling asleep to the sound of rain on the windshield, the welcome barks from his pack as it pulled into the driveway, and the hint of warm leather clinging to Hannibal on a particularly hot day.

 

“Vê algo de que gosta?" (See something you like?)

 

Will turns to see a small woman standing with a clipboard and a steaming coffee cup. She looks more professional than the car lot would suggest, her pencil skirt and carefully curled hair putting him at ease.

 

“Estou procurando uma coisa pequena, leve. tenho muito a dirigir.” (I’m looking for something small, lightweight. I’ve got a lot of driving to do.) Will walks away from the battered Bentley, his eyes catching on a cream-colored Corolla.

 

The body is rusted in spots and the front bumper looks like it’s had a few run-ns with immovable objects but the saleswoman lets him take a look under the hood and he’s pleased to see that the motor looks well enough.

 

“Quanto é?” (How much?) Will asks, trying not to look desperate. The city is waking and the noise of people and animals is crowding his senses and beating on the wall in his mind like a battering ram. He wants to leave and feel the open road sliding under his tires.

 

“Sete mil,” (Seven thousand) she says after checking a list on her clipboard.

 

Will shrugs and walks away from the car.

 

“Quatro mil, é o melhor que posso fazer,” (Four thousand, that’s the best I can do,) she says, making tick marks against her clipboard like the exchange is a game with points and a clear winner.

 

“Três mil,” (Three thousand,) Will counters, sure that the car wouldn’t sell for such a high figure if he were in the states.

 

“Três mil e quinhentos,” (Three thousand, five hundred,) she says, making more tally marks on her board and frowning.

 

Will looks the car over once more and decides that it’s worth the extra cost to stop the haggling. A headache builds behind his temples and he presses his hand to his forehead, a firm push as if he could shove the pain away from his skull.

 

“Certo, ok. Você aceita dólares?” (Yeah, alright. Do you take American bills?) He pulls out one of the bricks of cash and consults his newly stolen tourist map for the exchange rate.

 

She presses her lips together in a thin line but nods and Will catches snippets of relief from her as he counts out the money. She’s happy for the sale but hates that she didn’t start at a higher number now that he’s shown himself as an American. He signs the paperwork, gets his receipt and the keys, and she opens the gate, waving him away with a pleasantly fake smile.

 

Time slips away as Will finishes his shopping, piling the back of the tiny car with food and a sleeping bag and water and his newly bought clothes. He finds a hunting store and spends too much time among the smell of steel and oil, exiting with several new knives and a first aid kit and a bundle of arrows wrapped in cotton. Filling the car up with gas and scarfing down a steak sandwich, Will looks at his map and traces a path to Salvador.

 

_I couldn’t stay and survive each day watching you wither in front of me. I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t stay._

 

Wil grits his teeth and slides into traffic, the words of Hannibal’s letter ringing in his head and beating a staccato rhythm in his chest.

 

Driving in Brazil changes Will’s perspective towards American drivers and after he flips off the fourth car to pass him, he speeds up his own vehicle, hitting the bumps and divots in the road with the same blasé attitude of the native drivers and trusting that the car won’t shake to pieces. It’s uncomfortable, but the constant awareness keeps his mind off of Hannibal and his abandonment and the itch beneath his skin to drive steel into flesh and hear it tear. It takes a few miles, but soon Will reaches a long empty stretch of road and he eases of his speed, giving the car a rest while he twists a top off a bottle of water and guzzles half of it down.

 

_Salvador. Who’s waiting for me there?_

 

_*****_

 

Two days of travel, of leg cramps and restless sleep and warm water and tasteless power bars, and Will reaches the city of Salvador with itchy fingers, his mind awash with blood. He doesn’t need the killing, not truly, not like the killers he used to catch when Jack still looked at him with something like pride, but he likes it and right now, it feels like the perfect punishment for Hannibal’s absence. He runs a finger along the curved knife at his hip and smiles. He doesn’t need the hunt, but he wants it. Finding a quiet place to park, Will gets out of the driver’s seat and climbs into the back where his sleeping bag is stretched out. A shiver runs down his spine at the thought of closing his eyes but with his future plans at stake, he has no desire to fall victim to fatigue. His body needs sleep, even if his mind lurks in the shadows, building new nightmares.

 

_Sleep shouldn’t be so terrifying._

 

He dreams of fishing lures lengthening and sharpening into knives, fish sprouting arms and legs and lungs and screaming as he throws out his line. It’s panic mixed with pleasure and he presses black handprints to his skin while his stream turns red.

 

It's not good sleep, but it's better than hunting and making a mistake and ending up dead before he can hear Hannibal beg for forgiveness with a mouth full of blood. Grabbing a bottle of water and a packet of jerky, Will sits and eats and waits for his dream to fade. Scratching at his beard, Will decides a shower is needed before hunting.

 

Walking the crowded street, Will reads the various signs and turns down a small alleyway until he finds a bathhouse with a neon sign advertising the laundromat next door. It’s a simple matter of asking for a shower and soon Will is standing beneath a spray of hot water, washing the road from his skin and hair and watching the dirt swirl down the drain. He doesn’t have a razor, but there’s a bottle of soap standing in the corner of the stall and he uses it for his body and hair and if he imagines the look of horror on Hannibal’s face while he smears cheap soap on his skin, it’s no one’s business but his. Clean and changed into fresh clothes, Will thanks the owner and heads out for food, and prey.

 

Food comes quickly enough and he munches on bites of fried bean dough stuffed with shrimp as he watches people around him walk and talk and laugh. He avoids the groups who chatter away in English, unwilling to risk someone recognizing his face. While he hasn’t heard about any call for information as to his whereabouts, he hasn’t been checking any newsfeeds either, and in the end, he crosses the street to avoid any rude encounters. It’s a warm evening and Will is happy to wander from street light to street light, taking in the colorful buildings and groups of people dancing around handheld stereos. There are sex workers leaning against buildings, or strutting on the cement, and Will grows used to their presence, even smiling when they call out to him. A young child darts between dancers and spectators, his small hands taking wallets and jewelry while the tourists applaud the sweaty performers. Will watches but says nothing, the attention not worth the warning, and when the child escapes down a dark alleyway with his treasure, he feels a spark of glee at the boy’s cleverness.

 

The dancing doesn’t hold his attention for long. A tall man wearing a light blue linen suit and carrying a briefcase steps out of the shadows, scattering the tourists as he makes his way across the street. He sits at a large outdoor table in front of a rundown restaurant and someone dashes from the building to help him. He looks wealthy, intelligent, proud, and cruel.

 

_Perfect._

 

Will chooses his perch carefully, a small cafe’ adjacent to the sharp dressed man, but not so close that he might be noticed. He orders a coffee, strong and bitter and needed for the night ahead, and watches the man conduct business with people of varying degrees of cleanliness. It’s drugs, Will is sure, that he hands out like parcels of mana from heaven, and those that can pay are treated with coffee and a sharp smile and those who come begging are kicked until they leave bleeding.

 

Some are still begging.

 

_Fostering co-dependency, then he abandons them when they no longer serve his purpose. I want to rip his organs apart in front of him._

 

His mind races and his palms itch and Will rubs them on his pants as if the fabric could absorb the urge to scrape away this disgrace of a human with his fancy new knives. The well-dressed man closes his briefcase and stands, shaking hands with the restaurant owners as his business ends. Will breathes out a sigh of relief, eager to escape the busy cafe’ and its achingly attentive owners, eager to spill blood.

 

He’s careful and paranoid, this man with the drugs and the briefcase and the smile that warns others away. That smile fuels Will’s rage. He longs to watch it disappear in a rush of fear and pain. The man knows he’s being stalked, but Will stays quiet and invisible in the plethora of shadows, feeding off the unease that grows every time the man looks behind him. A small warehouse is ahead and the man pulls a key from his pocket, unlocking the rusty door and slipping inside. Excitement builds in Will’s chest, the thrill of the hunt buzzing in his veins, and he circles the building until he finds a row of windows covered with black paint. Pulling out his long, curved blade, the tip sharp enough to pierce a bear's hide, Will places his thumb along the side of the knife and cradles the handle in his palm. He smashes one of the windows and hops in, crouching among stacked boxes and waiting. Steady footsteps echo through the room as someone enters and Will leans away from the bright burn of a flashlight's beam. He blinks to clear his vision and hears the snick of a gun being pulled from its holster.

 

Moving before the man has a chance to shoot, Will pushes himself off the floor and under the arch of the flashlight and shoves his knife through the man's tailored suit, into the soft flesh of his belly. He pulls to the right as the flashlight falls to the floor, it’s bright light catching on a splash of blood hitting the concrete before it rolls under a nearby cart. The gun fires but Will is already pulling entrails out of the man's open abdomen. The bullet ricochets to his left but nothing hits him. He drops his knife to use both hands and he likes the way the ropes of intestines slip through his fingers and the way they bounce as they hit the floor.

 

Screams fill the room and Will slides a hand, a wrist, his entire forearm into the cavity he's created, watching in fascination as his arm disappears. He grabs onto a fistful of flesh and pulls. The man faints and Will lets him fall. He looks to see his arm coated in blood and smiles, clenching his fist to watch the liquid drip down his skin.

 

A noise below catches his attention and he sees the man looking up at him, eyes wide with fear and his mouth trembling as he gasps for breath.

 

"O que você quer?” (What do you want?)

 

Will shrugs, his eyes drifting back to his blood covered arm. "O que eu quero não está aqui. Então você vai ter que servir.” (What I want isn't here. You'll have to do.)

 

The man screams again but Will blocks out the sound. He fishes under the cart for the flashlight and picks his knife up from the floor. Sliding it under the strips of tape, he opens a box and cheap stuffed animals stare up at him with eyes barely sewn on and stuffing poking out of their seams. Reaching for one that somewhat resembles a monkey, Will cuts it open and pulls out a tightly wrapped block of white. Opening the rest of the stuffed toys, Will stacks each block next to the dying man's head and forms his design. Kneeling next to the pile of carefully wrapped cocaine, Will drags his knife up the man's chest, stopping at right side of his throat. He pushes his blade down and watches the rest of the man's life drain onto the cold floor. When the eyes are blank and the body is still, Will gathers up the cocaine and cuts the first block open. The white powder puffs into the air from the force of his knife and Will can't hold back his cough. It gets into his mouth and nostrils but he doesn't have time to deliberate on the first drug besides caffeine that's entered his system. Pouring the powder over the dead drug dealer's face, Will watches it spill out of his mouth and onto the ground where it turns a bright red as it soaks up the blood. One at a time, Will cuts open the rest of the blocks and covers the man with the shiny white powder, packing his abdomen with it until he resembles one of the unfortunate toys, dead eyes and stuffing spilling out of him.

 

Will leaves the body, white and sparkling in the faint light coming from the broken window, and searches the warehouse for a shower or sink. Finding a small basin tucked against the wall, he turns the tap on and jumps back as brown sludge sprays from the faucet. Something like water follows the sludge and it’s cold and murky and smells like dead fish, but it's enough to wash away the blood. He strips down to his boxers and throws his clothes in the sink, shivering as he scrubs the blood out of the fabric. He cleans his skin while his pants and shirt soak in the brown colored water, his teeth clicking with each violent shudder. Scrubbing at his arms and chest, Will feels a buzzing in his veins, and his heart is pounding as if it will pop out of his chest like one of those old cartoons about falling in love.

 

"Fucking cocaine." Will runs a wet hand through his hair and turns off the water.

 

Wringing out his clothes, he leaves them draped over the sink and braces himself against the wall. Will’s smiling, he can tell, and he giggles as he touches his face to trace the path of his upturned lips. His fingers catch on his scar and he pokes at it, more laughter bubbling up inside of him at the texture. He touches his other scar, the one that smiles at him in every mirror, the one he would touch when the bathroom door was locked and Molly waited for him to come to bed. He misses being her sweet man, her pretty, wounded stray who never said what he wanted and only did what he was told. He misses Hannibal more.

 

Anger pools in his belly and his cock swells, the distinction between rage and lust lost in the euphoric rush through his bloodstream. His erection is growing against his thigh, even with the cool air of the warehouse, and Will doesn’t stop thinking about his anger as he reaches a hand into his boxers. He strokes himself, gathering up slick pre-cum and gliding his hand along the shaft and head, thinks of strangling Hannibal. He thinks of breaking his neck, slitting his throat, _kissing his bloodstained lips, sinking teeth into his neck, carving his name along the solid expanse of his chest._

 

His entire body pulses with anger or lust or pain or want and his orgasm sneaks past the bloody images in his mind to paint his hand and tattered boxers with cum. He’s breathing heavily and he looks down to see his body shiny with sweat. Every scar looks fresh and new.

 

“Not so sweet or pretty anymore,” he announces to the empty room, tilting his head at the way his words bounce against the walls.

 

His hands shake as he wraps his arms around his chest and he slides down the wall, sitting down with a painful thud to his tailbone. It’s too much, the rush of the kill and the chemical assault of serotonin, oxytocin, and cocaine on his body, and Will leans his head against his arms, whimpering like a wounded animal. He feels small and broken, a ship battered by the storm, slowly sinking in the angry waves.

 

_This is all I ever wanted, for both of us. Both of us. Both of us. Both of us._

 

Hannibal’s words reverberate through his skull and he drops his head back, cracking it against the wall and letting the pain wash away the stabbing of those three little words. It helps and he does it again, and again, until all he hears is a faint ringing and the harsh drip of the faucet. As the ringing fades, whispers slip back into his mind. The cocaine is still working through his system and his clothes are still damp but he can’t stay in the warehouse with Hannibal’s words weaving through the stagnant air. He dresses, the clothes cold and clinging to his skin, and leaves the building and runs.

 

The air whips by his face and dries his clothes and his hair and he can blame the tears on the wind.

 


End file.
